


keep the home fires burning

by whiplash



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: BAMF!Mick, Bromance to Romance, Canonical Child Abuse, Criminal husbands, Domestic, Domestic Violence, Friendship, Gritty But Fluffy, Hurt/Comfort, Lewis Snart's A+ Parenting, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mick Has A Potty Mouth, Nature Documentaries as a Form Of Therapy, Pre-Series, Pyromania, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smoking, Underage Drinking, coldwave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they were Captain Cold and Heatwave, they were just Len and Mick (and Lisa). And sometimes that meant chilling out in Mick's crappy apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because after 1x06 and 1x07 I needed this. You know, things that happened before _'you'll burn too'_.
> 
> Each chapter's meant stand-alone part, however it's all part of a progressing story.

**the adrenaline junkie**

They stumble back to Mick’s place, drunk on adrenaline and lack of sleep.

“They never saw it coming,” Len says, so smug and pleased with himself that the skin near his eyes wrinkles. He’s not walking as much as he’s swaggering, hips sashaying with each step and his boots thumping confidently against the ground. His coat’s open, despite the cold wind, and it billows around him like he’s on a movie stage.

It’s all so over the top that it ought to look ridiculous. Yet somehow Len makes it look good.

And Mick’s only too happy to march alongside him. The street, long and empty, unfurls ahead of them, lit by sparse street lights and the occasional passing car. To a country boy like him, the city’s never quiet and the air never fresh but tonight it’s close enough.

“Perfectly planned,” Len continues in a sing-song voice, “and perfectly executed.”

At the praise, Mick takes a mock bow then reaches into his pocket to fish out a lighter and a battered pack of cigarettes. It’s a rare treat to see Len so stripped of his normal reserve and Mick basks in the unexpected warmth, much in the same way as he’d once savored the first few days of summer.

“Very professional,” he hears himself agree, his voice rough and gravelly even before he lights the cigarette. The end of it glows hot and bright in the dark night. He inhales deeply, hollowing his cheeks and filling his lungs. Next to him, Len wrinkles his nose in theatrical distaste.

“Passive smoking _kills_ ,” he informs Mick, in that prudish old grandma voice that he uses to remind Mick to fasten his seat belt and wash his hands before tucking into a shared pizza. Mick grins, blowing a mouthful of smoke in Len’s directions.

“If it's gonna kill you, then you might as well enjoy it properly,” he says, offering him the cigarette, saliva-dampened end first. Nobody's more surprised than him though when Len actually plucks the cigarette out of his hand. His eyes widen further as Len takes an obscenely slow drag. The glowing ember illuminates the planes and angles of his face to make him look, for a moment, like a stranger.

Then, because Len’s a contrary bastard even when riding the high of a successful heist, Mick's partner lets the cigarette butt fall from his hand into a puddle of murky water. Now Mick wouldn't normally let that kind of bullshit slide. But there's something about the curve of Len's smile and the glittering mischief in his eyes. Something that makes tonight different. Sighing at his own foolishness, Mick digs through his pockets for another cigarette.

xxx

They make it home shortly after midnight.

The hallway’s too small for the two of them so Mick shoves past his guest, trailing mud behind him on his way to the kitchen. Dirty plates wait for him in the sink and the ash tray’s overflowing. But there’s beer in the fridge, whiskey in the cupboard next to a pack of stale crackers and a half-empty bottle of vodka kept chilled in the freezer. There might even be a bottle of red under the sink, kept next to the roach killer and the bleach. Stuffing a handful of crackers into his mouth, he considers his options.

“Beer?” he eventually calls over his shoulder, only to receive a non-committal grunt in reply. Wiping crumbs off his chin he grabs a six pack and steers his steps towards the living room. There he finds Len fiddling with the remote, zapping through the channels so fast that just glancing at the screen gives Mick a headache. In Mick’s absence Len has sprawled across the entire couch, his coat draped over the back of Mick’s armchair and his mud-stained boots piled inelegantly under the side-table.

“I thought I was the one raised in a barn,” Mick complains as he steals back the remote and shoves Len’s legs off the couch to make room for himself. He kicks off his own boots and plants his feet on the table. Twisting the cap off his beer he switches to the nature channel. A few fox cubs tumble across the screen, the grass high and green around them. The narrator drones on, but Mick’s tuning out the actual words as he sinks back into the pillows and sets to work emptying the first bottle. After a while he gets tired of Len’s legs dangling awkwardly over the edge of the couch and picks them up, draping them over his own thighs.

“Your feet stink,” he lets Len know without taking his eyes off the screen.

“I’m amazed that you can tell over the stench of your own foot-rot,” Len mumbles. Now that they're safe and sound in Mick's apartment, he’s coming down hard, skin pale and eyes barely open. All the energy that’s been humming under his skin for the past few days has disappeared, leaving him loose-limbed and mostly asleep. Mick hides a smile behind his bottle. He praises himself on having made the right call by not bringing in the whiskey.

Many years ago, back before he knew better, he’d attempted to cure Len’s inevitable post-heist adrenaline crash with a few stiff drinks. The result had been amusing for the first hour, then suddenly very alarming for the rest of the night. It's not a mistake he'll be repeating.

On the screen, the mother fox brings her cubs the mangled remains of a forest bird. They cheerfully rip into it, their little snouts turning bloody and feathers sticking to their wet fur. The biggest cub pushes its weaker siblings to the side, greedily swallowing down big shreds of meat without chewing. The narrator speaks, very quietly, of the approaching harsh winter and Mick raises the volume.

Far from disturbing his partner, the drone of the television tends to lull Len to sleep. It’s a neat trick that he’s picked up from Lisa. Reminded of a forgotten task he digs through his jeans pockets until he finds his phone. Switching on the screen he types out a message to Lisa to let her know that her brother will be crashing at Mick's place. His phone dings just a few seconds after he hits send. 

_If he drools send pics. XOXOXO._

Mick chuckles but doesn’t make any promises. Yawning wide, he then reaches for his second beer, only half-listening as the narrator describes how most of the cubs won’t survive until spring. By the time the bottle’s empty, Len’s already asleep, head tilted back and mouth half-open. The side of his face may, or may not, be damp with drool. 

“Fucking adrenaline junkie,” Mick mutters, softening the words by rubbing his thumb gently along the heel of Len’s stinky sock.


	2. Chapter 2

**the bad patient**

“Get away from me,” Mick snaps, lashing out with his left hand only to howl in pain as the cast connects with Len's face. The world begins to spin and he falls back into the car seat, cold sweat trickling down his spine and his t-shirt growing damp patches under his arms. Letting his head pitch to the side he's surprised to find that he's knocked Len over on his ass. He's now staring up at Mick with a pissed look on his face and blood trickling down one of his nostrils. On the bright side, his nose doesn't look broken. Len takes a beating better than most guys but he's always been particular about getting hit in the face.

“Don't need you pawing at me,” Mick mutters, refusing to acknowledge the tiny spark of guilt. It's not his fault if his dumbass partner's never learned how to duck. Len wipes his nose on his sleeve and struggles to his feet. He's doing the thing with his eyebrows which means that he's slowly counting to ten.

“All right,” he finally says. “See you upstairs, partner.”

The way he smirks makes it clear that he doesn't really expect to be seeing Mick anytime soon. Without as much as glancing over his shoulder, Len then stomps away, punching in the access code and letting the heavy door fall shut behind him.

Good riddance, Mick tells himself, wrapping his good hand around the handle of the crutch. Sure, he hit a spot of black ice and wiped his bike. Sure, he banged himself up real good and yeah, sure, he signed himself out of hospital against the doctor's advice. But that doesn't mean that he's a fucking cripple.

He'll do just fine on his own.

xxx

Len's a real vindictive son of a bitch.

He doesn't come looking for Mick until it's pitch dark outside. By then Mick's been sitting on the floor for fuck knows how long. In his defense, he'd managed the first set of stairs just _fine_. Would have made it up the rest of them too, he's sure, only he'd dropped his crutch. The less said about his attempt to retrieve the damned thing the better. Now he's just sitting here, with his back to the wall, his bad leg stretched out in front of him and his bad arm tucked up securely against his chest.

His throat's parched and his bladder's bursting. Len would probably claim that's ironic. Mick doesn't care one way or the other. He just wants to get off the cold ground and get home already.

For the past half an hour or so he's been contemplating crawling. It's not pride that keeps him from giving it a go either. It's just that he has three cracked ribs, plus one that's dislocated. His chest hurts bad enough when he's breathing and he doesn't really want to find out how much more it'll hurt if he tries something overly athletic. Still, his bladder's about to burst and unless he wants Len to find him sitting in a puddle of piss, Mick's gonna have to do _something_.

And that's when he finally hears a door creak open, followed by someone thumping down the steps. He hopes to all hell that it's Len, even though he knows that the little fucker will be unbearably smug. Still, by now pretty much everything strikes Mick as a better option than spending another minute stuck on the floor.

Tilting his head he makes out first heavy boots and stick legs, then the rest of his partner.

“Need a hand?” Len drawls, clever enough to stay well out of reach. He sounds and looks, for the most part, amused. There's, however, a frown between his eyes and a certain tilt to the corner of his mouth. Mick, grateful for the crack in the poker face, takes the hint of warmth as a sign that Len won't leave him stranded on the floor overnight.

“Need a working leg,” he mutters, surprised to hear his voice come out thin and tired. “You planning on dragging this out much? Because, just so you know, I'm gonna piss myself in a minute.”

“That better be an exaggeration,” comes the chirpy answer. “It'll take me a hell of a lot longer than a minute to haul your fat ass up these stairs. And, just for the record, if you piss on me, I'll break your other leg.”

And then people claim that Mick's the rude one.

xxx

By the time they make it up the stairs, through the front door and into the narrow hallway they're both huffing and puffing. Mick's legs feel like overcooked noodles and he's somehow both shivering with cold and sweating like a pig. He does a double-take when he catches sight of his face in the bathroom mirror.

“You look like an extra in a zombie movie,” Len cheerfully confirms. His fingers, cold as ice and with no goddamned sense of propriety, slip underneath the waistband of Mick's sweatpants. Mick jumps at the unexpected chill, jarring his ribs. He'd cuss up a storm, he truly would, but right now he just doesn't have the damned strength to do more than slump forward and hope that Len will catch him. Which, thank fuck, he does.

“Gonna pass out on me?” Len asks. He's visibly bracing himself underneath Mick's weight, but he's not bucking or complaining. Stronger than he looks, Mick thinks with a burst of fondness.

“Nah,” he sighs. “Just catching my breath.”

“Speaking of the devil,” Len says, turning his head with a grimace, "it smells like you've been licking your own balls.”

Mick runs his tongue over his gums and the top of his mouth. His mouth's dry and, yeah, he supposes it does taste like he's been licking something nasty. Still, it feels like a low blow.

“I like my balls licked as much as any other guys,” he mutters. “But I'm not that fucking agile even at my best. Now, we gonna get this show on the road or what?”

The speech leaves him out of breath.

“Always felt pissing should be a spectator sport,” he hears Len say. “Tomorrow we'll sell tickets.”

Then he helps Mick drag down the sweatpants, politely turning his head as Mick fumbles with his dick and empties his bladder. It's awkward, sure, but still a hell of a lot better than pissing himself in the hallway or cracking his head open on the sink.

xxx

“Bed would be more comfortable,” Len says as he lifts Mick's bad leg and places it carefully on the sofa table. The crutch's leaning against the side of the armchair and Len's wedged a pillow under Mick's elbow to keep the cast elevated.

“Don't care,” Mick assures him. “Could sleep on the floor. Almost did.”

Then he lets his eyelids slide shut and he loses time, minutes or more ticking past as he half-dozes. He's not sure how much time has passed when Len prods him awake. By then he's been covered with the comforter from the bed. It's heavy and warm, so much better than the scratchy blanket they'd given him in the hospital. Mick uses his good hand to drag it higher, making sure that he's covered from the shoulders down to his feet.

“Here,” Len says, holding out a handful of pills and a glass of water. “Antibiotics and painkillers. I'm afraid you missed a dose while hanging out in the hallway.”

Mick swats at him with his good hand but this time Len's prepared. He dodges like a pro.

xxx

After a few days, they've worked out a routine.

Len hangs out in his apartment, drinking Mick's beer and bitching about the mess. After the first night, which he'd spent tossing and turning on the couch, he makes a big show of changing the sheets in Mick's bed and claiming it as his own. Squatters rights, he says, smiling with too much teeth. Not like Mick cares. He's as uncomfortable in the armchair as he would be in the bed.

He splits his time between watching nature documentaries, smoking and playing with his lighter. When Len gives him pills he takes them and when Len hands him food he eats it. Every once in a while he hobbles to the bathroom, leaning heavily on the crutch, Len or, on occasion, both. He pisses and brushes his teeth while staring at the bruises on his face. Figures it's a good thing he wore a helmet.

On the morning of the second day, he lets Len take a switchblade to the sweat-stained t-shirt. He handles the blade with care and it sure beats having to lift his hands over his head. When Len's done he hands Mick a soapy cloth which Mick dutifully rubs under his pits.

“Guess we could pay someone to give you the full sponge bath experience,” Len says, sounding doubtful. In the unforgiving light in the bathroom he looks tired. There are smears of blue under his eyes and he's been worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Fuck that,” Mick grumbles. “Waste of money.”

“I beg to differ. You smell like crotch.”

“Thought you liked the smell of crotch in the morning,” Mick counters. It's not a crack about Len being gay as much as it's a crack about Len liking cock. There's a _difference_. Len still slaps him in the face with the towel.

“Old man crotch,” he clarifies. “You smell like old man crotch. Senior citizen crotch. Septuagenarian crotch. And I'm not into _that_ anymore than you are, partner.”

So, yeah, they have a routine going. One where Len takes good care of Mick, making sure he's fed, watered and reasonably clean, while they both pretend it's just business as usual and that they're not both burning with cabin fever.

xxx

“Your cockroaches grow any bigger and you'll be obliged to name them,” Len says in a conversational tone. “Now, I don't speak insect but I'm pretty sure one of them just offered to help me carry out the trash.”

“Stop tidying my place,” Mick orders.

He's watching a documentary about sharks. They're ugly fuckers up close.

“Did you know,” he says, transfixed by the screen, “that sharks eat their own siblings? Like, before they're even born. The embryos have teeth and they duke it out like Battle Royale in their mama's womb.”

“Mhm. Did you know that you're all out of bleach?” 

That's the worst part about Len, Mick decides as he puts out his cigarette in the coffee cup. He's such a goddamned philistine.

xxx

He wakes in the middle of the night, the memory of glorious flames and the rich scent of smoke following him from his dreams. It chokes the life out of him, leaving him wide-eyed and panting for air. His chest feels like it's on fire and, when he moves, his leg falls off the table. Everything hurts, and while he's aware of the fact he still barely _notices_.

Because, more than anything else, he wants to burn the house down.

“Mick,” someone calls and suddenly Len's right there, kneeling next to him. He's not wearing anything but his boxers and, even in the darkness, it's easy to see the tension in his shoulders. Mick stares at him, trying to focus on the knowledge that he's making Len worried rather than on the flames licking at his brain with a forked tongue.

“Bad dream?” Len asks.

Mick shakes his head. Nothing bad about it. Just the world on fire.

“Should I put on one of your shows?” Len asks next and Mick shakes his head again. It helps sometimes, sure, but it's not gonna work tonight. Not when he's been pent up for this long, with no outlet other than playing with his lighter and sniping at Len.

“Hang on,” Len mutters and then he disappears. Mick loses himself inside his own head for a while. It's not a good place to be. Even he knows that and it's with relief that he lets Len's insistent voice drag him back to reality. The room's darker. Len must have pulled the curtains shut and turned off the lamp in the hallway. It takes a while for Mick's eyes to adjust. Len presses something into his hands. Something small and cold, easily identified by touch alone. His lighter. Mick flicks it on, watching the flame dance.

It's too small though. Like a drop of water to a man dying of thirst.

“Here,” Len says, offering him something else. It's hard to make out in the darkness but it looks like a stick. Useless, Mick decides, whatever it is. He's not sure what game Len thinks they're playing, but he's damned certain that the doesn't have the energy to play along with it. Besides, Mick only has one good hand and, small comfort though it might be, he's not ready to give up on the lighter.

Len mutter something under his breath, then leans forward. He touches the stick to Mick's flame and it explodes with light. Sparks flicker, white and bright. Sparklers, Mick's brain translates. Len, with his obsessive need to always think one step ahead, had gone out and bought him sparklers. It's no proper kind of fire, of course. Nothing at all like the inferno from Mick's dreams with its red plumes of fire and accompanying black, billowing smoke. The light from the sparklers, it's too pale. Too cold. Like starlight on a dark night. But even so Mick begins to breathe a bit easier.

The sparkler burns out. The room's pitch dark again. Mick's chest constricts.

“I have more,” Len offers.

Mick transfers the lighter to the fingers sticking out from the cast, holding on to it awkwardly while he reaches out blindly with his good hand. He fumbles in the dark until his fingertips brush against bare skin. Then he trails his fingers down, past the sharp elbow and the tiny goosebumps until he's able to wrap his fingers around the bony wrist. He tugs, dragging Len off the floor and into the couch. The damned thing's big enough for the two of them and the night's gonna last for far too long for Len to spend it kneeling on the hard floor. It's awkward, but he even manages to drape the corner of the comforter over Len's lap.

“Burn them all,” he rasps. Len immediately obliges.

True, it's no proper kind of fire. But, this once, it'll do just fine.

xxx

“How's the leg?” Lisa asks, sparing the cast a curious glance before dramatically pitching back into Mick's armchair. She's blonde today, her mouth lipstick red and the skinny jeans spray-painted to her ass. The tacky necklace, draped twice around her neck, looks cheap but Mick recognizes it from a heist he'd pulled with Len a few years ago. The way he remembers it, that thing's worth a hell of a lot more than his crappy two room apartment. 

“Still broken,” he grunts in answer to her question before securing the remote by shoving it between his thighs. Lisa pouts but keeps her filthy mitts to herself. He doesn't kid himself though. Her complaisance has far more to do with Len suddenly appearing in the doorway than any actual scruples about getting near Mick's junk.

“Thought you weren't coming by until later,” Len greets his little sister. He has his sweater rolled up to his elbows and, with his hands red and wrinkly, soap suds still clinging to his skin and a kitchen towel draped over his shoulder, he looks like a politically correct advertisement for a cleaning service. Mick has given up on trying to get his partner to stop tidying though. If nothing else, he figures it'll keep Len busy and out of trouble. Idle hands and all that. Besides, it's not like Mick minds not living in a pig sty.

“Got hungry,” Lisa explains. “Figured you'd be cooking.”

“You hate my cooking,” Len points out as he wipes his hands on his jeans.

“Maybe I just couldn't wait to check up on Mickey,” Lisa lies, her voice saccharine sweet. Or maybe it's the truth disguised as a lie. It's even harder to tell with her than her brother. “He looks like a mummy, you know. Although he smells more like one of the walking dead...”

“He's too cheap to spring for a hooker to wash his junk,” Len informs her.

Because, yeah, Lisa totally needs to know that.

xxx

“It's no worse than what they serve in prison,” Mick says, digging into his bowl of chili. It's no culinary delight – the way he figures it Len has thrown together a few cans of beans and tomatoes, then stirred while hoping for the best – but it's better than going hungry.

“That's sweet,” Lisa coos. “Loyal to a fault.”

She's refused to even taste the chili, claiming an allergy to tomatoes. Which is bullshit because a few months ago, around Christmas, Mick had made lasagna for the Snarts and then she'd had three servings. Where she puts it all Mick has no idea, but as Len's the same he figures that it must be something in the Snart gene pool. Good metabolism. Bad temper. Lousy sense of humor.

“But no, sure, you're right, Mick. In his own way, Lenny's _great_ in the kitchen,” Lisa drawls, dipping her fork into the can of cold ravioli that she'd appropriated from Mick's cupboards. The ravioli comes in tomato sauce, of course, but so far she's not broken into hives.

“For one, he's real inventive,” she says, smiling sweetly at her brother. “My packed lunches were the envy of all the other kids.”

Len flips her the bird without taking his eyes off the television screen. Today it's a documentary about the blob fish. It looks a lot like Mick's old science teacher.

“Lots of cold pizza,” Lisa continues her reminiscence. “Cold fries once. Topped with hot dog mustard and with pickles on the side.”

Mick makes a sympathetic gagging noise. Fucking pickles.

“You survived, didn't you?” Len says, voice caught somewhere between bored and annoyed. Which means that he's butt-hurt and about to spend the rest of the day brooding about all the way he failed as a big brother slash parent.

“Didn't even get scurvy,” Lisa agrees after Mick gives her a hard look. “Don't worry, Lenny, you were a great mom. And someday I'm sure you'll settle down and make someone a nice wife too. Hey, maybe Mick will have you!”

Len's eyes narrow in a way that promises trouble.

“Tomorrow,” Mick says, his voice loud and mean enough that they both startle, “I'm ordering in. You two freeloaders can eat Moo Goo Gai Pan or you can go hungry. I don't care one way or another.”

That shuts them up. For all of five minutes. Then they're right back to sniping at each other. Mick fumbles for the remote, then thumbs up the sound until it's drowning out the worst of it. He's polished off his bowl of chili and even though he's sure there's more in the kitchen, he's not gonna ask for seconds. This once, Lisa's right. Len's really not all that special in the kitchen. Pretty special in other ways though, Mick admits to himself. Pretty damn special in all the ways that counted. But it wouldn't do to let Len know. That damned head of his would swell up like a balloon. So Mick just grins and returns his attention to the television screen.

The blob fish, he reflects, is even more of an ugly motherfucker than the shark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you can dislocate a rib. Don't try it though. It hurts.


	3. Chapter 3

**the asshole**

It's nights like these that Mick could kill for air conditioning.

He's stripped down to his boxers and undershirt. The thin cotton fabric sticks to his skin. Sweat beads, the size of bullets, trickle down his neck and spine. There's a fan spinning in the corner – the last one left in the store by the time that Mick gave in to the heat – but it only pushes hot air around the room. Earlier in the week he'd tried cracking the window open, but all it did was to let in the stench of the city and a couple of buzzing fat flies.

The matter's not helped any by his house guests either. The Snart siblings had, once again, invited themselves over to occupy Mick's lumpy old couch, Len sprawling against one armrest and Lisa curled up against the other. The two of them might be as cold-blooded as snakes, but they still put off enough body heat to make Mick wonder just why he ever let them through the door. He hadn't seen them for a while though. The oppressive heat had lead to Len setting up shop in a bar with air conditioning while Lisa spent her days doing, well, whatever kids her age got up to these days. Petty theft, maybe. Trespassing. Reckless driving.

“Fold,” he grunts, throwing down his cards. Across the table, Len's lips curl into something which might, on another day, have been the beginning of a smirk. Now it's more of a twitch. Len doesn't handle the heat well. Claims it puts him off his game which, as far as Mick can tell, means that it makes him drowsy and prone to introspection.

“Do you have any soda?” Lisa demands, looking up from her glossy magazine.

She's popped the first two buttons of her jeans. There's a bowl of ice-cream balanced on her belly and a smear of double chocolate chip on her sleeveless top. She's planted her bare feet on the table, right next to the playing cards, and whenever she wiggles her toes the gold nail polish catches and reflects the light. 

“Nope,” Mick lies. She's a bottomless pit, that one, and she's already had the last of his ice cream. “Just beer. And half a bottle of whiskey.”

“No whiskey,” Len orders, leaning across the table to gather the cards. In his own way, he's dressed for the heat. Which is to say that he's abandoned his sweaters and seems to be wearing only the one t-shirt. It's long-sleeved though, keeping him covered from the wrists all the way to the neck.

“You're not the boss of me,” Lisa says, scowling in a way that makes her look like she's ten years old and just got told that she can't have cookies before dinner. “If Mick's offering me whiskey, I can have whiskey.”

“Not legally, you can't,” Len counters, dealing Mick in for a new hand without asking. They're playing for matches and the pile next to Len has been steadily growing over the course of the evening. Or, well, it had been growing. Lisa kicked the pile over earlier while on the way to the bathroom and now most of Len's winnings lay scattered all over the floor.

“I can't, huh?” Lisa repeats, smiling crookedly. The curve of her lips makes her look a lot like her big brother. It's the exact same smirk that Len tends to wear just before he shots someone between the eyes. Though unless she's concealing a gun inside her bra, Mick's pretty sure that she's not packing. And he's fairly sure she'd never shot her brother. At least never a killshot.

“That's rich,” she continues, “coming from the guy who got sent to juvie when he was fourteen.”

“Didn't get sent to juvie for underage drinking, now did I?”

The two of them could continue like that for the rest of the evening. They have before and each time it amazes Mick how they'll cut into each other over childhood transgressions. Lisa scribbling six-legged unicorns on Len's safe schematics. Len washing Snowflake with Lisa's red socks and forcing her to rename the stuffed bunny Pinky. Len refusing to order pizza with peppers, Lisa making her brother pay for her gossip magazines. After all these years, Mick knows most of the stories by heart. They all have one thing in common; they make him real happy to have grown up as an only child. 

“I've had whiskey before,” Lisa insists.

“Not with me around, you haven't.”

That's when the new neighbor starts beating on his family again.

The guy moved in a week ago and so far not an evening has gone by without the asshole making his wife plead or his children cry. Now, sure, it takes a special kind of dick to beat up a toddler and the sound of the shouting and crying makes Mick vaguely uncomfortable. But it's not like Mick's the patron saint of battered children. He can't be expected to fix everything that's wrong in his fucked-up neighborhood. 

“They moved in last week,” he says, glancing at his cards in disgust. Reaching down he knocks over a few empty bottles before he finds one that's still unopened. The beer's lukewarm and tastes like dishwater. He still swigs half the bottle.

“What happened to old Mr. Carter?” Len asks.

He sounds like maybe his cards aren't much good either.

“Heatstroke. He smelled something awful by the time they carried him out of here.”

Mick's nose wrinkles at the memory.

Upstairs, something crashes onto the floor and breaks. Another plate from the sound of it.

“Give it a few more days and they'll be eating off the floor,” he predicts. The image's kind of funny. A whole family crouched down on their hands and knees, sucking up strands of pasta or nosing at heaps of mashed potato. But no one laughs. In fact, other than the sound of the fan and the muffled voices from upstairs, it's very quiet. The air feels tense. Like the seconds before lightening splits the sky, thunder booms and a heavy tree trunk splits in half.

On the couch, Lisa's begun shoveling ice-cream into her mouth again. She's white-knuckling her spoon while staring fixedly into the bowl. When she swallows, her whole face scrunches up like she just gulped down a mouthful of broken glass. Now, Mick's seen her pack away food before but never like this. Glancing at her brother, he finds Len wearing his best poker face.

Mick knows about old man Snart, of course. Has seen the scars he left on his little girl, both the ones peeking out underneath her short skirts and slinky tops and the ones hidden behind her fake smiles and constantly fluttering eyelashes. Has seen the damage done to Len too. Has even been told a few battle stories, back when they were younger. And, now, while no one's ever accused Mick of being smart, he's not so dumb that he can't put two and two together and come up with a reeking pile of dog shit.

Upstairs one of the kids begins to cry. Hard to tell if it's a girl or a boy. That age, they all sound the same to Mick. Len shifts his weight, as if he wants to get to his feet. A forgotten match breaks under his foot. At the unexpected sound, Lisa presses her shoulders back into the couch, her grip on the spoon shifting so that she's holding it like a shiv.

The fan spins, round and round, without doing much good. It's almost too hot to breathe. Mick drains his bottle before heaving himself to his feet.

“All right then,” he says. He doesn't look over his shoulder. Either Len will follow, or he won't.

In the hallway Mick sticks his bare feet into his boots, not bothering to put on his jeans or a shirt. He takes the time to do the shoes up properly though. It wouldn't do to trip over his own shoe laces and break his damned neck before he gets to the fun part. Len appears out of the shadows and bends down to do the same, his hands steady and his breathing even as he tugs the laces tight. His head brushes against Mick's thigh and Mick stares down at him.

There's a crescent-shaped scar, faded silver with age, right above Len's ear. Courtesy of a broken bottle, he'd told Mick when the two of them shared a bunk bed in juvie. Mick later took the words to mean ' _c_ _ourtesy of_ _my_ _old man_ '. The injury had been fresh back then, raised and swollen with stitches barely holding it together. Mick had touched the wound, just for shits and giggles, and he'd laughed when Len jumped. Looking back, it's not a memory that makes him proud.

If Mick were to do it again, it'd be different. He would be gentle this time, as he ran his fingers over Len's shorn scalp, tracing the length of that scar and maybe even brushing against the soft skin behind the ear. Mick plays with the idea but doesn't follow through with it. Tells himself that he's not gay enough for shit like that. Not like Len, who'll suddenly smirk across a crowded room before vanishing into the shadows with some stranger for just long enough to get his rocks off.

As soon as Len's done with his boots, they stomp up the stairs. When they get to the door Len knocks while Mick stands back, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. To his utter lack of surprise, no one opens. It's quiet behind the door, like nobody's home. The asshole has his family well- trained. Len glances over at him and shrugs his shoulders.

“People have no manners these days,” he says, sounding greatly saddened by this fact. Then he kicks at the door. Not hard enough to break it, but with enough force that he scuffs the wood. Still nobody opens. Mick's just about to push past him – it's been a long time since he had a chance to kick in a door – when the lock finally turns and the door cracks open. The security chain's in place and the sweaty, beer-flushed face that peers out at them doesn't look too welcoming.

“What?” the asshole snaps and Mick expects Len to give some long-winded answer. He tends to monologue far too much for Mick's liking, like he's a super villain in a kid's comic book. But instead, Len just smiles and slides his foot between the door and the door frame. When he pushes forward the chain comes off the wall, the door opens and the asshole falls backward.

Whistling happily Mick follows Len through the doorway.

xxx

“You didn't have to set him on fire,” Len says, proving once and for all that he's a god-damned backseat driver. “If you're that desperate to play with matches I'm sure that we can find you some old crack house to burn to the ground.”

They're back in Mick's living room and Mick, being in a celebratory mood, has brought out the whiskey bottle. It's not a top shelf brand or anything but it's still miles better than the cheap beer that he'd been drinking earlier. He sets out three tumblers on the table and Len fills them all without protesting. When they toss back their shots, Lisa grimaces so maybe whiskey's not to her liking after all. Or maybe she's just feeling sick from all that ice cream.

“You didn't have to stomp out the fire,” Mick answers, still holding a grudge. Not much of one, but just enough so that he offers Lisa a refill. She shakes her head, still blinking tears out of her eyes.

“Just being a Samaritan,” Len drawls with a tiny smile.

The asshole had howled as Len stomped on his hand.

“You're both idiots,” Lisa informs them, her voice rough from the whiskey. “Don't shit where you eat, that's what you taught me, Lenny. Tell me, what will the two of you do when that shit stain calls the police on you?”

“The way he's been treating his family he won't be calling the police,” Len answers. “Besides, it's been suggested that, come morning, shit stain best go looking for new lodgings.”

“Mm,” Mick agrees. “A bachelor's pad.”

Lisa laughs then. It's an infectious sound and Mick finds himself laughing with her. Len just shakes his head at both of them. His eyes glitter with amusement though as he nurses his drink like the world's about to run out of second rate whiskey. The apartment's still sweltering hot and his boxer shorts keep riding up his crack, but suddenly Mick feels like he's on top of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it! :) And I guess when I tagged it slow burn, I really meant slow burn...  
>  


	4. Chapter 4

**the nose-job**

He's taking his morning piss when someone knocks on his door.

It's five fucking thirty and much too early for it to be good news. With that in mind, Mick makes a detour to the bedroom to grab his gun before stomping to the door and wrenching it open. He expects it to be either someone looking for a fight or someone asking for his help to finish one. Instead it's Lisa Snart. 

She's all dressed up, decked out in high heels, a short skirt and a plunging neckline. Mick's no saint so he sneaks a quick peek before fixing his eyes resolutely on her face. He's still taking in the smeared lipstick and the runny mascara when she ducks under his arm and stumbles into his apartment. Up close she stinks of weed which, yeah, goes a long way to explain why she's knocking on Mick's door instead of her brother's. 

Closing the door, Mick follows behind her as she sways through his apartment. It's not a bad view, but he's known her since her fourth birthday and can't quite work up more than a token interest. In the middle of the living room her legs seem to fold underneath her and, with uncharacteristic gracelessness, she flops down, rolls onto her back and stares up at him. 

"Hey Mick," she mumbles. He grunts, studying the pallor of her face and the red rims around her eyes. Considering the possibilities his fingers tighten around the gun in his hand. 

"You brother all right?" he grinds out. Lisa squints and purses her lips. One hand lifts, drawing some invisible pattern in the air. 

"Len's... Len," she finally proclaims with the wisdom of the profoundly wasted. Mick exhales, letting the tension bleed out of his body. 

Then he goes to make breakfast. 

xxx 

"I'm gonna get a new nose," Lisa announces. 

Mick lifts another piece of bacon straight out of the pan. It's salty and the perfect mix of crispy and chewy. Most fuckers either burn their bacon or serve it soggy. Not Mick though. You gonna take the time to cook, you might as well do it right. 

"You can help me pick," Lisa generously adds. "Do you like Madonna's?" 

Mick blinks, then rewinds the conversation. 

"Never thought much about her nose," he admits. He doesn't mean to be funny but Lisa still laughs. It's not a very happy noise. 

"No," she says. "I suppose you haven't been looking at her nose." 

Mick shrugs, not bothering to confirm the obvious. Instead he starts gathering up the dirty plates and cutlery. There's already shit piled in the sink -- two empty cans of ravioli, an equally empty bottle of whiskey and half a dozen dirty forks -- so he just stacks everything on top of the stove. 

Lisa watches him, gnawing on a left-over piece of toast. 

"Your kitchen's nasty,” she says, without sounding too bothered. “I bet if Len wasn't such a neat freak you'd have, you know, suffocated under a mountain of trash by now." 

"Probably," Mick agrees. 

"He always kept the house real clean when we were kids," Lisa continues. The way she draws it out makes him think a story will follow but instead she just stares off into space. As the room fills with silence Mick leaves her to her thoughts, cracks a window open and lights the first cigarette of the day. It's long fucking overdue so he lights a new one with the dying embers of the first. He makes it all the way down to the filter before Lisa speaks again. 

"So, can I crash here or what?" 

When he woke up at the ass-crack of dawn Mick's plan had been simple. Piss, smoke and then go back to bed to jerk off and fall back asleep. Get up in time for dinner, then either go out for some beer or sleep some more. 

"You gonna be sick?" he asks now. 

"Not unless you just gave me food poisoning." 

"Next time you can starve,” he assures her. “Gonna steal my booze?" 

"C'mon,” she whines. “That happened once!" 

Mick waits. He's never had much in the way of patience, but luckily Lisa's even worse. She pouts for a few seconds, then sighs. 

"No," she promises. "I won't steal your booze." 

"Gonna leave lipstick smears all over my sheets?" 

Lisa snorts then pushes to her feet. She wobbles once, then crosses the floor to press a feather-light kiss against the side of Mick's face. And Mick, standing perfectly still, quietly figures that he now knows how the guys filming all those nature documentaries feel when they catch a glimpse of something rare and precious. 

"Like I'd ever sleep on your gross sheets," Lisa says, yawning wide. "I'll take the couch. And if you're going back to bed, you better close the door. Your snoring could raise a zombie army." 

Mick grins and shakes his head, then leaves her to fend for herself. As he falls asleep (behind a closed bedroom door) he considers calling Len to let him know where his sister is at but, well, Mick's no snitch. 

Besides, Lisa's as safe with him as she would be with her brother. 

xxx 

“Can I have one?” she asks. 

Mick blows a cloud of smoke out the window, then shakes his head. 

“You brother would kill me. Besides, it's my last one.” 

He expects her to pout but she just shrugs and jumps up to sit on the table. Her hair's still wet from the shower and she smells of his cheap-ass soap. Chewing on her bottom lips she crosses her legs, either not noticing or not caring about how doing so puts her panties on display underneath the hem of Mick's too large t-shirt. 

"You never asked me why I want to get a nose job," she says. 

"Why do you wanna get a nose job?" Mick parrots. He might be stupid, but he's not so dumb that he doesn't recognize a cue when he's slapped in the face with it. 

"Because I hate my nose," she replies instantly and he dutifully inspects her face. There's, unsurprisingly, nothing wrong with her nose. It's not too big, nor too small. If her asshole father ever broke it, well, at least it didn't heal crooked or nothing. 

“Looks fine to me.” 

"It's the same as dad's," she says. And, yeah, of course this has to do with that asshole. 

"It makes me think of him," she continues. She sounds as serious as he's ever heard her and the way her face's set, all hard lines and grim determination, she looks just like her brother. "Every time I look in the mirror, I think of him. Every. Single. Time." 

She's rubbing her fingers against the scar which runs along her collarbone. Mick's own fingers twitch, uselessly tightening around the lighter in his pocket. He opens his mouth once, then closes it again. 

"Well,” he finally manages, “if you really think letting some hacksaw carve into your face will change that then, sure, go for it. I'll even spot you the money if you're short." 

It's clearly not what she expected him to say. 

“Len wouldn't like that,” she finally says, staring down at her nails. “He thinks I'm perfect just the way I am.” 

Her voice betrays just how far from perfect she feels. 

“Len can suck my dick,” Mick counters. (And ignores the shiver that goes up his spine at the words.) Lisa lifts her head to stare at him then she laughs, low and delighted. Maybe even relieved. 

“So, you don't think I'm perfect then?” she teases, batting her eyelashes. Without all the make-up on she looks five years younger. Like she still ought to have a curfew and someone around to make sure she eats her vegetables. 

“I think you're a rude little brat,” Mick answers. “But you're not. You're an adult. And your brother's not the boss of you.” 

His honesty earns him a second kiss. 

xxx 

Lisa never gets that nose job. 

But a few weeks later she saunters in after her brother. The first thing Mick notices is how Len looks like someone pissed in his morning cereal. And then maybe shat on his newspaper as well. The second thing is the golden stud embedded in Lisa's left nostril. 

“New look,” he says, saluting her with his empty coffee cup. 

“New look,” she agrees with a bright smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update. And that, when I do, it barely even has any Len/Mick interaction. There's more to come though!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with the story! <3


End file.
